The monster comes to the hospital
though guests are not welcome in the House
of Injury, because who else
will hold your hand in the guise

of comfort? The triage desk, sifting urgent
from the surge of supplicants, screening
for ailments treatable with platitudes and patient
education, knows only what family
looks like on paper. The trick

to mistress-ing is that even
with titles and public
handholding, even if wedding
invites are addressed and family,

you have no rights, no reasonable
expectation, no recourse, no emergency
contact, no severance, no permanence,
no promise, no priority in the division
of resources. The first time

your once lover puts you to bed
in the guestroom, you are too feverish to have feelings
about guest-ing, glad only for someone
pulling the emergency cord, for the ordinary sounds
of someone else’s family, to be the object—not
the subject—of worry. In this scene, you are too sick

to love but they do it anyway.